You can't hold a candle to cruelty
by howthemightyhavefallen
Summary: Snapshots of the Master, frozen in time. Little moments that nobody else sees.
1. You can't hold a candle to cruelty

I don't own Doctor Who.

By the way, as a leftie I know the mess ink can make _very_ well.  
Please comment if you can!

* * *

_Goodness is not goodness that seeks advantage. _

He's younger and crueller and sharper round the edges, a caricature of the man he once was. He cuts open hearts with the same childish joy that he burns planets with, and it really _is _funny. Intense, unpredictable and insane, a whole screaming planet on fire.

His Doctor is a plaything, a puppet, fit to be shaped and moulded. Ripe for reformation. His Doctor is young and gleeful, in a way he can barely remember. His Doctor is kind to a fault, and that disgusts him. Sometimes he wonders why he bothers with Theta, only to hear some witty remark or catch sight of a ridiculous, _hopeless _plan, and he remembers. His Doctor is _alive_.

He resolves to crush that spirit, and does so with ruthless efficiency.

* * *

_Good is good in the final hour, in the deepest pit._

They're no wiser, really, but the Time War ages them. There are horrors that can scarcely be understood, let alone _stopped_. Skaro. Rassilon. The Nightmare Child. The Could-Have-Beens and the Never-Weres, and the Matrix's prophecies. The paradox monsters which crawled out of Gallifrey's time locks, threatening to rewrite the unrewriteable. They wonder if that's actually a word, or if they're just making shit up again.

Of course, those are not the worst parts of the war. The worst part, predictably, is the Doctor. This Doctor is so... off. So distant. Barely there even when he is around, and his visits are all too rare these days. A monster of his own creation, and quite likely his own destruction. The Time War has messed with everything, even reality.

Time is like wet ink, going everywhere and making a mess and constantly smudging. The lines people once vowed never to crossed are stepped over again and again until the Master is dizzy and pale and sick to their core. Even the very fabric of the universe is unstable now.

* * *

_Without hope, without witness, without reward._

Unit is odd, because it is one of the only places she has ever been _young_. She'd looked old, yes, but really she was a child. And yet, somehow, she still hates it. Nowhere is beautiful anymore; the dark, ugly reality of life has caught up with her, and now she spends every waking moment dwelling on the horrors that have absorbed her. Fleeting moments of joy with equal amounts of pain have been exchanged for a perpetual hollowness that cannot be shaken off. No sadness, but no happiness either. It is like a lead blanket, dragging her down with every step, an eternal reminder of the shadow cast by the Time War. There are some things that simply cannot be fixed, and Missy is one of them.

* * *

_Virtue is only virtue in extremis._

They wish to be good, sometimes, but that is a waste of time. They wish they could have the unflinching certainty the Doctor presents in the face of danger. They wish they could be optimistic, but this universe is such a very dark place. They wish to be what the Doctor sees in them - an intelligent, hard-working, self-sacrificing pacifist. Somebody to bring light, to bring hope. They wish they could be kind. But this has never been them. When they find out Gallifrey has lied, they strike back, and they strike back _hard_. The Vault doesn't matter anymore; _nothing _matters anymore. Their life is a lie, and once again, the Doctor is wrong. They are _utterly _incapable of good.

Virtue is only virtue in extremis, but it can't hold a candle to cruelty.


	2. Somewhere out there

A sort-of fairytale which is as true as you want it to be. Enjoy!

* * *

Somewhere out there, there's a star called Solitude. An odd name for a burning ball of gas, but whatever. Nobody knows exactly where it is, but there are legends about it, as there always are.

The most famous by far is of a child, a ghost of a boy, who wanders around it. They say he has dark hair and bright blue eyes, two hearts and hope. He is eight or nine, or maybe ten, and he has been there for eternity and no time at all.

Some say he wears robes of dusty orange and burning red, others that he is dressed in shadows which are darker than midnight black. Some say he is not a boy at all; some say his clothes and face are always shifting between different forms.

Perhaps he is a white-haired old man with a goatee, or a strange person in a leather jacket and sunglasses. He might wear velvet or a purple dress or a hoodie or even just a plain old suit. Whichever he is, his clothes are always immaculate.

Who is this child? Is he merely a myth, or is he the ghost of some long-lost boy? Maybe he is real, and out there even today. Maybe he is a warning to young children - but what is the warning? Maybe he is the hopes of a bored young man on a boring old planet, living his boring life. Maybe he is the deluded dreams of a dying Time Lord (or even Time _Lady_, thank you very much).

Some believe he has a friend, one who left to see the universe. They believe, one day, he may come back. Alternatively, the ghost will be wandering around Solitude for a long time yet, waiting for his runaway friend. Waiting to fulfill an ancient promise.

Or maybe, just maybe, they could see the stars._ Every star in the universe_.


	3. Haven't you heard?

I just made up the names, if you're wondering.

* * *

"Hello, Lord Oakdown," says the president, calm and confident. "It is good to see you again."

"Hello, Lord President. Is there any reason for your visit?" Karaz asks, quiet. Worried.

"I merely wished to see how your family was doing, Azni," the president said, "there is no need to worry."

"Careful, my lord. Only my husband calls me Azni. You may be president, but these are my lands - I am not some commoner. Be careful where you walk, or you may find a knife in your back."

Karaz watches the president tense. It is almost imperceptible, but he is a master of reading body language. There is silence, until finally the president speaks up.

"Where _is _your family, Karaz?" he says.

"Avit is busy at work, and - well, Koschei is Koschei."

It's true. His son doesn't like other people. At all. Rarely speaking, and when he does it is in whispers, monosyllabic murmurings. Never open, not even around Karaz. He hates socialisation in any form, and shies away from outsiders. The only person he'll talk to is Avit - it's infuriating.

"May I meet him, Karaz?"

"I wouldn't advise that," he says, "but go ahead. Koschei! Get over here, now!"

His son walks towards Karaz quietly, not looking up. His gaze moves to the president, and he flinches, suddenly shifting into his 'upper class' mode. Koschei approaches the two men with apprehension, not daring to make any sudden moves. The president looks down with confusion.

"This is not what I expected from a man like you, Karaz," the president says.

"You sound surprised. I _did _warn you, you know."

Koschei retreats, absorbed by the shadows.

* * *

The boy who returns from the Academy is not the son he knew. Karaoke hears that this child is bold, witty, and so fast the even the professors can barely keep up with him. He is not the quiet child who wouldn't look the president in the eye, and he is certainly not the boy who wouldn't speak to his own father.

He has friends - some children that Karaz can't be bothered to remember. He has confidence most will only dream of, he's forward-thinking, he sees a brighter future. A genius, supposedly, crafty and intelligent. Powerful, even.

It's everything Karaz had dreamed of, and it terrifies him. This is not his son, cannot be his son -

He clings onto that belief like he thinks it'll save him.

* * *

His son is a young man now, with piercing blue eyes and waves of dark hair that are artfully tied back into a plait. Wisps surround his face, like a halo of midnight. Smart clothes, bright mind, a promising boy and an exceedingly successful man. This Time Lord has it all, as is evident from the cocky looks and the off-hand comments, the quiet smirk and the gaze gleaming with intelligence. He is a weapon, and a dangerous one at that.

"Father," he says, dismissive of Karaz.

"Hello," he replies back, hoping his son hears the ice in his voice. "What are you up to now?"

"Plenty, without you," he says, "are you jealous?"

Blunt as always. None of the endless trickery and niceties of the others. Karaz enjoys it, really. Though he may come off as the scheming politician, he was just the same as his son at that age. The lying was a learnt habit. As natural as it seems - and he is one of the best liars - he much prefers the sting of the truth.

"No, why should I be, Koschei?"

"Koschei? I'm sorry, I think you've made a mistake. I'm not Koschei, not now," he says, the humour in his voice vanishing.

"Excuse me?" Karaz says. He's certain he won't like what's coming next. "And who are you then?"

"Why, Father, I'm the Master now. Or haven't you heard?"


End file.
